


Never Him

by RosesandStatues



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 1k, Abandonment Issues, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crying, Dialogue, Episode: s08e08 Mummy on the Orient Express, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fun, Happy Ending, It's kind of sad and that it gets happy, Jealousy, Light Smut, Not Beta Read, One Shot, Sobbing, Third Person POV, Twelve hates Danny, Twelve x Clara - Freeform, Whouffle (mentioned), angsty, how do you tag, how the fuck do you tag, i can't tag, idk - Freeform, like really, like so light it's not even there, the Doctor has abandonment issues, their last hurrah, urgh, uuuuuhhh, what else, whouffaldi, whouffaldi first kiss, yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-30 20:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15759090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosesandStatues/pseuds/RosesandStatues
Summary: The horizon stained red with blood, air tinged with screams, and he has to drag her away, away from the horror, the pain, the bloodshed. She’s crying, trying to go back, “We have to help them!” she screams, but he can’t lose her.He can’t lose her.Not again.Back to the Tardis, where she pounds her fists into his chest hard enough that it hurts, shoulders shaking, “We have to help them!” He pulls her against his chest, shirt soaked with her tears, and she clings to him, crying, crying, crying.“I’m sorry,” he wants to say, “But I couldn’t risk losing you.” I would tear apart the universe for you, he thinks. “We can’t go back. There is nothing we can do,” he says. And she’s sobbing, but she doesn’t argue, face pressed into his chest, hands clinging to the lapels of his jacket, and she seems so small wrapped in his arms, so breakable, and he wonders when he started to fall. He reaches up and wipes away her tears and he really should move his hand from her face but when did her eyes get so pretty?When did he realize just how beautiful she was?





	Never Him

He remembers his old self, the one with endless energy and laughter and that _ridiculous_ bowtie. He remembers changing, and finally seeing himself in the mirror, when the regeneration sickness has passed, when she finally decided to _stay_ , and he can’t help but feel sick.

He’s old now.

Oh, god, he’s _old_.

But she’s staying, she’s staying, she’s staying. _She’s not leaving him._

(She is glue and tape and he is a vase, put back together after a stray hand, clumsy feet, shattered him to pieces, held together by her, only her.)

And he’s _happy_. She’s with him (she’s not leaving him), and she still smiles at him the same way, dimples and teeth and gums and eyes that outshine the stars.

But she’s not _with_ him. Danny Pink is his name, and the Doctor can’t help but hate him. A soldier, a _soldier_ , who stole Clara’s, _his_ Clara’s heart. How can he _not_ hate him? But the way Clara speaks of him…the left side of her lip raised slightly more than the right, nose wrinkled ever so slightly, eyes clouded with a far-off gaze. She loves him. She really, really loves him.

(He tries to ignore that she used to look at him like that. The old him, the one with the bowtie.)

And he _hates_ him, _hates him so fucking much_ for making Clara look at him like _that_. ( _“_ That’s _him. Look at him right now. That’s who he is.”_ ) He _hates_ him when Clara walks out of the Tardis, after him, after the _soldier_ , because she loves _Danny_.

Not him.

Never him.

Humans. He never learns.

And she’s crying. She’s crying because of him, because he’s _such a bloody idiot_.

 _“I was helping,”_ he says.

 _“What, by clearing off?”_ she responds, sobbing, and he wants to scream, to smack himself, because _why must he always hurt her?_

 _“Yes,”_ And it’s the wrong thing to say, because she’s angry, she’s crying.

 _“Well, clear off! Go on, you can clear off!”_ He doesn’t respond, and she keeps going, waving her arms around, crying, crying, crying. _“Get back in your lonely— your lonely bloody Tardis and you don’t come back_. _”_

She leaving.

No.

 _No, please_.

_Please don’t leave._

_“Clara—Clara—”_ he says. _Please don’t go_ , he thinks.  

 _“You go away. Okay? You go a long way away.”_ And she’s resigned, she’s leaving.

 _Oh god, she’s leaving him_.

But then she’s back, but for the last time, _the last hurrah,_ and he has to remind himself that this _doesn’t change anything_. She still is leaving him.

(She’s still so beautiful.)

That night, the lights are out, the hallway is silent, and she buries her hands in his hair and unbuttons his shirt and _oh. Oh._ He kisses her, more passionately than friends should, and he knows he will _never_ forget her, the way her back arches, pale skin glowingly, dress a crumpled heap on the ground, moans sending white hot flames down to his groin.

 _It doesn’t mean anything_ , he tells himself. And it _doesn’t_. They don’t speak of it, when they’re sitting on the beach, she’s wrapped in a blanket, and he tries to joke, tries not to show her how he feels like he’s dying inside because their _last hurrah_ is _over_.

She’s leaving now.

 _Please_.

Back on the Tardis, with her still in that dress that made his jaw drop when he first saw her, she spins to him, eyes desperate. _“Do you love it?”_

 _“Love what?”_ It’s a stupid question. He knows what she’s asking.

 _“I know it’s scary and difficult, but do you love being the man to make the impossible choice?”_ He doesn’t know where this is going. He hates not knowing.

_“Why would I?”_

_“Because it’s what you do, all day, every day.”_

_“It’s my life.”_

_“Doesn’t have to be.”_ He doesn’t know where this is going. She continues, _“Is it like...”_

_“Like what?”_

She hesitates, uncertain of whether to go on. _“An addiction.”_

_“Well, you can’t really tell if something’s an addiction till you try and give it up.”_

She nods, and looks so sad he feels like dying. _“And you never have.”_

And his voice nearly breaks when he says his next few words, _“Let me know how it goes.”_

_Please don’t go._

_“I love you_ , _”_ she says. But not to him, to _Danny_ , who called her at the worst time, and it feels like he’s falling apart.

(She’s leaving, his glue and tape is leaving, and now he’s lying shattered on the floor.)

And when she hangs up, she’s quiet. And then a smile fills her face, and his heartstrings tug a little, like every time she smiles at him.

_“He’s fine with it.”_

What? _“I’m sorry—”_

 _“Danny. He’s fine, with the idea of me and you knocking about. It was his idea that we stop, but he’s decided he doesn’t mind.”_ She walks closer to him, eyes bright, excitement filling her face. _“And neither do I. Oh to hell with the last hurrah let’s keep going.”_

He can’t help the laugh the escapes his lips.

She wasn’t leaving.

Oh, thank god, _she wasn’t leaving._

 

Later, though, he finds out that Danny is dead. She lied to him, and he to her, _and aren’t they both just idiots?_

He tries to feel bad about Danny’s death. He really, really tries. He can hear her sometimes, during those five minutes Danny gave her, crying so hard she can’t breathe, but he doesn’t go to her. He doesn’t go, because he _can’t_ lie to her again, and isn’t comforting her when he doesn’t miss the person gone a form of lying?

 

The horizon stained red with blood, air tinged with screams, and he has to drag her away, away from the horror, the pain, the bloodshed. She’s crying, trying to go back, _“We have to help them!”_ she screams, but he can’t lose her.

He can’t lose her.

Not again.

Back to the Tardis, where she pounds her fists into his chest hard enough that it hurts, shoulders shaking, _“We have to help them!”_ He pulls her against his chest, shirt soaked with her tears, and she clings to him, crying, crying, crying.

 _“I’m sorry,”_ he wants to say, _“But I couldn’t risk losing you.”_ _I would tear apart the universe for you_ , he thinks. _“We can’t go back. There is nothing we can do,”_ he says. And she’s sobbing, but she doesn’t argue, face pressed into his chest, hands clinging to the lapels of his jacket, and she seems so small wrapped in his arms, so breakable, and he wonders when he started to fall. He reaches up and wipes away her tears and _he really should move his hand from her face_ but when did her eyes get so pretty?

_When did he realize just how beautiful she was?_

And he should pull away, remove his gaze from her, take a step back, but he _doesn’t want to_.

But he has to, so he does. And Clara’s face falls, only for a few second, before it inexplicably hardens. _“No.”_

And they’re kissing, her hands buried in his hair, his hands are on his cheeks, and he manages to gasp out, _“Danny?”_

And she pulls him closer, _“He told me to move on.”_

And their kissing again, and she sighs, and he can’t help but respond with one of his own.

He wonders what he would do without her, what he would _be_ without her, and it’s a stupid question because he already knows the answer. He would be a canvas without paint, a sunrise without color, summer without warmth.

A broken vase without it’s glue.

  
Fin.


End file.
